Luck of the Jewish
by nitefang
Summary: Where was his father's old shotgun? Puck needed it to go blast his own head off since it was malfunctioning. He'd lost his mind. It was the heat. He passed out from heatstroke and was having some funky dream as some sort of cosmic payback for coming up with so many racist jokes. He thought he'd been in the clear since he'd never said them out loud. Apparently he was wrong.
1. Chapter 1

**For the anon who prompted me on Tumblr. You made my day, so I had to reciprocate. Your wish became my command. :D**

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**1**

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There were a lot of things—scratch that—there was a _shitload_ of things that Noah Puckerman didn't like. For one thing: the old X-Box. The black and green piece of shit was the bane of his existence because that motherfucker was a defective turd of a game station that would shut off right when he defeated one of the most hard-ass bosses on Ninja Gaiden. Neither did he like wearing cummerbunds 'cause they made him feel like he was wearing a girdle. He didn't like those Chinese porcelain figures that his Nana Connie had on display in her living room either 'cause they always stared at him like they were struggling to break free of some Asian curse and attack him.

But above all else, there were three things that Noah Puckerman absolutely _loathed_.

One: okra. He just fucking hated okra. He could eat whatever-the-fuck-else was put in front of him, but he just could _not_ deal with okra. The fact that the flesh was all stringy once you took a bite, so either you cram the whole damn thing in your mouth at one time or deal with gnawing your jaws off to cut off the string—UGH. Not to mention the slimy, seedy inside that never failed to make him gag. Plus the outside itself was kind of fuzzy like it had hair, and the combination of hairy, slimy, and stringy sliding down his throat just made the hair rise on his arms. _Blech._

Two: snakes. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he fucking hated snakes 'cause Indiana Jones, that badass motherfucking archeologist, hated them too. They were just creepy bastards, man. Poppin' up every-fucking-where 'cause they had the ability to hide in the most random and inconspicuous places. He'd had run-ins with real snakes and the gardening hose enough times to completely and totally turn him off to the species.

Which led him to number three: gardening.

He really, _really _hated gardening. Fucking _despised _it. He didn't mind dirt or sweat or bugs or the smell. He wasn't some pansy-ass priss who didn't like it when dirt got under his nails. He just didn't like the fact that he was doing backbreaking (literally) work and getting _absolutely nothing out of it._

"But you get a nice clean garden, Noah!" his ma would cry. "The state of your property reflects on the individuals living on it!"

And he understood that. Yeah. His ma was a woman, and she wanted shit to look pretty—flowerbeds, perfectly pruned trees, fuckin' _immaculate_ yards. But they were _literally_ throwing out gallons of water on stuff that was doing absolutely _nothing_ for them. If he was _farming_, sure. If he was weeding to protect his fucking tomatoes or potatoes or canta-fucking-loupes, then _by all means_—he would do this shit with no complaint. But the fact that instead of getting food out of his work, he was getting _fucking azaleas_? Yeah.

He wasn't pleased about that.

So he was pretty much composing a whole song out of every cuss word he knew and making a hell of a time out of it as he clawed through the mulch and dirt he'd laid out the week before to find the invisible weeds his ma was just so _damn_ paranoid about.

And then his gloved fingers finally found one of the thick runners of the grass that used to grow in the area. Puck sighed and looked up to the sky.

_God,_ he prayed, _please don't let there be any more of these bastards under here._

Then he shifted around to clamp his hand around the root and _yank_.

But the son of a bitch wasn't budging.

Like the motherfucker was just fucking attached to the base of his house, and he'd wind up uprooting the whole damn structure if he wanted to get this piece of shit out of the ground.

He reached in through the dirt and grabbed hold of the root with both hands, coming up to his feet so that he was squatting on the ground instead of kneeling. He straightened his back, braced his feet, and then _pulled—_pulled with all his fucking might until it finally popped out and sent Puck flying onto his back.

He groaned, still clutching the roo—_wait._

Then he froze, blinked, frowned, and then looked down at what was _supposed_ to be a root in his hand. But instead, he was holding a stick. Or…more like a _club—_like what Pocahontas's dad nearly smashed John Smith's head with in that Disney movie.

"Oi! You found it!"

Puck snapped upright and stared at the foreign exchange student that was currently running across his yard. "The fuck?"

"You found me shillelagh!" Rory cried, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Sha-lee-lee? The fuck, Flanagan?!" Puck breathed, his face torn between disgust, shock, and disbelief.

Rory just brushed him off and reached for the stick. "It's _shillelagh_, Puck. Sha-lay-lee," he corrected him. "It's me walkin' stick."

Puck just continued to sit there, squinting up at Rory. "Why the hell was your _walking stick_ buried in my yard, Flanagan?" He refused to flinch at the words that had just come out of his mouth and hoped the idiot would take it at face value and that none of the neighbors were watching.

Rory scowled and reached for his stick, effortlessly yanking it out of Puck's grip—which was, by no means, supposed to be an easy feat considering how tight Puck had been holding it. "That blackguard Donnabhain banished it couple'a centuries ago."

Puck blinked.

"Been all arseways since I'd been parted with it. Damn-near lost me mind during the sixties," Rory continued, oblivious to Puck's expression as he fondly held his shalee-whatever. "Travelin' up and down the world tryin' to find it."

Then, gripping the circular-end of the stick, he tapped the other end on the ground, and Puck suddenly felt the dirt underneath him quiver. Ripples of gold light radiated from the tip of the creepy-ass stick. Puck watched in fuck-struck shock as Rory started to _shrink_. His hair grew lighter, going from brown to a light auburn while the tips of his ears lengthened into points. His sneakers darkened and smoothed into shiny, black leather shoes as his jeans transformed into dark green slacks—complete with fucking _emerald-green suspenders. _His t-shirt shimmered and morphed into a white button down-shirt covered by a bright red jacket with seven buttons and gold and green embroidery on the cuffs. When he finally stopped shrinking at a solid three feet, a dark green fedora appeared in Rory's other hand, and he smoothly flipped it up onto his head.

"WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?!" Puck bellowed, scrambling off the ground and sprinting toward his front door, trying to put as much distance between himself and the…_THING._

He glanced over his shoulder to see Rory with his head cocked to the side in curiosity, but when he turned back, he screamed and nearly back-flipped. Rory had somehow magically disappeared and reappeared in front of him.

"HOLY SH—"

"Puck, calm down—"

Call it instinct. When something that freaky _materializes_ in front of someone with some serious anger management issues, you can expect that the aforementioned materializing freak would get punched in the face.

But as soon as Puck swung, Rory vanished again, reappearing to Puck's right.

"I mean you no har—"

Puck twisted and aimed his knee to his right, but when his bone _should've_ collided with Rory's nose, it met thin air, and Puck spun from the momentum of his kick, landing on all fours on the ground again. He blinked and was suddenly staring at shiny black shoes.

"Can ye' listen to me now?" Rory sighed wearily.

Puck replied with a swift uppercut. Rory dropped to his knees, clutching his crotch in absolute pain as his face immediately turned as red as his jacket. Puck pushed himself up to his feet, glaring down at the shrunken Rory, who'd just curled up in fetal position.

"Noah!"

Shit.

"Noah! Why did you just punch the leprechaun?!"

"Bekah, get back in the house! This is a-a-a _zombie_ leprechaun!"

"Noah, you _numbnuts_! There are no such things as zombies," Bekah snapped indignantly, marching off the porch and heading straight for Rory.

Puck just glared at her, his mouth hanging open. "And there are such things as _leprechauns_? Have you lost your—Beks, don't _touch_ him!"

"But it's _Rory_!" she protested as Puck grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off the ground.

"No, it's not! Not anymore! It's the…evil, uh, emerald gremlin from Ireland!" Puck floundered for an answer as he fought his ten year-old sister to keep from letting her slip out of his hold.

"You're such a douche, Noah," Bekah said flatly, flicking him in the nose. "Now go put him in the house before I tell Ma you've been attacking people again."

"That's not _people_, Bekah! That thing's not even _human_," Puck countered.

She nearly kneed him in the balls. "Put—him—in—the—house," she commanded stonily, burning the tips of his 'hawk with Nana Connie's trademark glare.

With a heavy sigh and a whispered "holy fuck, I'm dreaming," Puck set Bekah on the ground, awkwardly hefted the groaning Rory into his arms, and then stalked into the house. Bekah trailed after him, protectively holding onto Rory's hat and shalley-thing. As soon as they were in the living room, Puck unceremoniously dumped the…_whatever_…onto the couch and stepped back so his psychotic little sister could get to him.

"Rory, Rory, Rory," she nagged. "You okay?"

Puck rubbed the bridge of his nose and took deep, even breaths. "Did you spike my drink?"

"With _what_?" she demanded exasperatedly, throwing another glare at him over her shoulder. "Pixie sticks and detergent? Yes, Noah. I totally spiked your OJ. Can't believe we're related."

He scowled down at her and nearly stepped into the coffee table when Rory jerked up and made him jump back in surprise.

"Whoa, that was quite a jab," Rory groaned, shifting sorely on the couch and then grinning up at Puck. "Haven't been hit that quick and that hard since the Second Leprechaun War." Then his attention was redirected to Bekah, who was still holding on to his hat and stick. "Well, hullo there, me 'ould flower."

"Hi, again, Rory," she answered with a smile. "So Brittany and I were right? You _are_ a leprechaun?"

"O'course," he answered with a grin as he lifted his hat out of her hands and put it back on with a flourish. "Decided to have some fun with ye' and pretended to be a human pretendin' to be a leprechaun. S'why I told Brittany—well, _that_ and ye' and I know she's a pretty bird, so pretendin' to be somethin' I actually _am_ for a snog seemed like a good idea, eh?"

Puck closed his eyes even tighter against the throbbing headache he was developing. He could barely understand the dude before—now, ever since that goddamn twig popped outta the ground, it was even _worse_. The accent was thicker, and there was some random-ass words getting throw into the mess.

"Anyway, I gotta thank ye' for findin' me shillelagh," Rory said sincerely, practically _pirouetting _off the couch as he took his stick from Bekah. "I owe ye' a favor."

Where was his father's old shotgun? Puck needed it to go blast his own head off since the piece of shit was malfunctioning. He'd lost his mind. It'd been the heat. He passed out from heatstroke and was having some funky-ass dream as some sort of cosmic payback for coming up with so many racist jokes about Rory. He thought he'd been in the clear since he'd never said them out loud, but…apparently he was wrong.

"M'gonna have a stroke," Puck muttered breathlessly, collapsing into one of the armchairs.

"Stop being such a drama queen," Bekah sighed. She rolled her eyes. "Good _Lord, _what kind of self-respecting Puckerman are you?"

"There is a_ leprechaun_ in our living room, Rebekah!" Puck cried, hands outstretched toward the _allegedly mythical creature_ itself. "What _sane_, self-respecting Puckerman are _you_?"

"I believe in what I can see, Noah," she answered patronizingly. "And I _see_ Rory standing _right there_. So what if he's a leprechaun?"

Puck blinked at her. "Are you _high_?"

"NO-AH!" she shrieked furiously, chucking one of the throw pillows at him.

"All right, all right, kids, calm down," Rory said in an attempt to placate them.

It wasn't working.

"BE-KAH!" Puck mocked at the exact same pitch. "You're such a fucking psycho! I _knew_ Ma dropped you on the head too many times!"

"God, you're such a _jerk_!" she screamed. "Ma may have dropped me a thousand times, but she left you with the _wolves_ for the first five years of your life!"

"Kids, please—"

"SHUT UP, FLANAGAN!" both Puckermans barked in perfect harmony.

Two loud booms echoed through the house, shaking the floors and making the glass rattle. Puck and Bekah turned and looked down at the three-foot irritated leprechaun.

"I have not waited five centuries to regain my powers only to play babysitter for the both o' ye'," Rory snapped, his normally-blue eyes turning emerald. He rounded on Puck, brandishing the pointy end of his shapoopie in Puck's face. "Now ye'll _tell_ me how I can pay ye' back, or so help me, I will force it outta ye'."

"What does that even _mean_?!" Puck demanded. "What are you talking abou—no! NO! No, you know what I want?! You know how you can pay me the fuck back, you creepy little fucking gremlin?! Scram! Get outta my face! Leave me to pick up the fucking pieces of my goddamn sanity! I swear to _God_, I need to get outta this town!"

"NOAH!"

But Rory just grinned, bowed, and then said, "Your wish is me command, boyo." Then he tipped his hat, tapped his stick on the floor one more time, released one more pulse of gold light, and vanished.

Puck dragged his fingers through his 'hawk and scraped them through the stubble on either side of his head before pulling them forward to drag the skin of his face down to his jaw. This was because of how hard he crammed for that geography final. He was permanently brain damaged.

**~oOo~**

Puck cracked his eyes open one at a time, making sure that he was exactly where he expected to be, looking at exactly what he was supposed to be looking at, feeling exactly what he was supposed to feel—in his bedroom, his ceiling, and his sheets, respectively. Well, he was feeling hungry and a little sleepy too, but that was beside the point.

But he couldn't reassure himself that it had all been a dream because he distinctly remembered taking a shower, dumping his clothes in the hamper, ignoring Bekah screaming at him about how he was such a moron for passing up an opportunity to take advantage of a magical creature, ignoring her some more as he made dinner, locking her in her room, convincing his ma that Bekah had too much chocolate and had gone berserk, and then going to bed with a raging headache that had him tossing and turning half the night. Which was why his comforter was on the floor along with one of his pillows and the Spiderman comic book he'd been trying to read to distract himself.

His door blasted open, and Bekah rushed in. She gracefully leaped right up onto his chest and started bouncing on him. Bitch.

"Get up! Get up! Get up! Get up!" she squealed. "Ma made chocolate chip pancakes, scrambled eggs, and those biscuit-thingies that you can peel off in layers!"

"Is there meat?" Puck groaned, shoving her off his lungs and pinning her down with his pillow.

"Turkey bacon, you _pig_," Bekah sighed, not even bothering to put up a fight.

"You know I always gotta have meat, Beks. I'm a _man."_

"_No,_ you're a _beast._"

"Well…that works better," Puck said with a lopsided smile. "Thanks, Beks!" Then he winced and had to ask. He didn't wanna rush down the stairs only to see that the creepy little gremlin had decided to crash breakfast. "Hey, uh, did Rory drop by?"

She gave him a funny look. "Flanagan? No. Why?"

He froze and stared at her. "What did you do yesterday?"

"Watched TV while you went gardening," she answered as if he was stupid, pushing the pillow away and sliding off his bed to pick up his Spiderman comic.

"And then…?" he prompted, throwing off his sheets and standing up.

She flipped through the comic for a second before answering, "And then you came in, made dinner, and then we went to bed."

Holy fuck.

"NOAH! BEKAH! COME EAT!"

Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

"Come on, pig," Bekah said, snapping Puck out of his stupor and dragging him out of his room by the hem of his shirt. "Before the pancakes get cold. They're best when the chocolate's still gooey."

He was so shocked out of his mind that he completely forgot that Ma didn't make chocolate chip pancakes unless she was about to shoot them down with a machine gun of bad news.

Had he dreamed it all? Had he really fucking dreamed it all?

But…but the dirty shirt he was wearing was still in the hamper—just as dirty. And the Advil he'd taken to relieve his headache a little was still on his desk with a glass of water. And he still had the bruises from where he'd been pinching himself.

That hadn't been a dream. Right?

Fuck, he was losing his marbles.

So as soon as he made it to the table and started shoveling in forkful after forkful of chocolate chip pancakes and turkey bacon and eggs and those fucking delicious biscuits, he regained enough presence of mind to ask his ma: "Okay, woman, what do you want?"

She smacked him upside the head and reached out to wipe away a smear of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. "I taught you better table manners than that."

"I'm taking a mental health day from manners, Ma," he said around a mouthful of eggs.

"Not a good enough excuse," Bekah scoffed, daintily taking a sip of her apple juice. "Every other day is a mental health day for you, psycho."

Puck ignored her and zeroed in on his ma. "Why'd you make chocolate chip pancakes?" he asked flatly.

Aviva Puckerman sighed and sat down at their small dining table. "Do you have any idea how proud I am of you, Noah?"

He swallowed whatever had been left in his mouth and leaned back in his seat, frowning.

"I know, I know," she said mournfully, "I've never acted like it—but can you blame me after all the hell you put me through? Good Lord, boy. But when you walked across that stage and threw the tassel to the other side of your cap… I was two parts proud and eight parts disappointed."

"Ma!" Bekah cried in horror, dropping her fork on the floor with a clatter that made Puck's eye twitch.

"Not like that! Lord Almighty, no!" Aviva cried, glancing back and forth between her kids. "No, no, I was disappointed—_sorry _that I'd been such a crap mom to you, Noah. Y-You _tried_, and a part of me knew it. What with the glee club a-and Beth coming back to town… I just…I didn't want to look too much into it because I figured that you had a cycle for this sort of thing. You did good, and then you did something bad—do you understand?"

Puck tried his best to clamp down his grimace, but his lip still twitched involuntarily. "Yeah, yeah, I got it," he muttered a little bitterly.

Aviva smoothed the edges of the cream-colored placemat in front of her nervously. "That's why I wanted to take a pre-emptive strike. You've got your diploma, so—"

"So you're gonna manipulate me so that I won't do anything stupid to maintain my equilibrium?" he blurted out.

She looked a little shocked—at the idea or how he phrased it, he wasn't sure. Yeah, he knew a couple of big words. Fuck off.

"Your great-uncle Seth—you know, the one who owns a guitar shop? Well, he's…getting along in his years and—"

"He's old, and you offered me to help him out before he keels over by himself?" Puck finished dryly.

She winced and then started waggling a finger at him. "Y-You're the one who's been insistent on getting out Lima for _years_, Noah! You said it yourself before—you've got star potential. You can't possibly get any opportunities in this town, so instead of thinking of this as me trying to keep you out of trouble, think of it as my boot on your butt to help you fulfill your dream."

"You really wanna get rid of me that bad?"

"I do."

"Shut up, Bride of Chucky."

Then he dropped his eyes to his plate and started rubbing his 'hawk.

Apparently he was going to New York City.

**~oOo~**

He wasn't gonna call it good luck.

He wasn't gonna call it good luck because that meant acknowledging there was a certain amount of _luck_ involved.

This wasn't luck.

This was full-on _magical interference. _

After the third hundred-dollar bill he picked up off the sidewalk, he was thoroughly convinced that the crazy-ass experience he had with Rory the Leprechaun was as real as his dick. He didn't know why the creepy gremlin was doing it, but it was being done. And it was kinda scaring the bejesus outta him. Which is why he actually donated the fourth Ben Franklin to the St. Jude's donation jar at the local Wal-Mart.

Though he totally didn't decline the offer of a free full tank from Dolly, the cashier at the local Mobile station who'd made eyes at him as soon as he walked inside to pay. He was a nice guy, but he wasn't an idiot.

He blamed his traffic-jam-less trip on good timing. He blamed Quinn when he narrowly missed getting in a car accident with a motherfucker who ran a red light because she called him, shrieked at him when he told her he was driving, and then forced him keep his foot on the brake until he'd hung up and set the phone on the shotgun seat. And he blamed his kickass reflexes when he jumped out of his truck and caught a toddler who'd decided on diving out into the busy street in spite of his screeching mom.

But the fact that he actually _saw_ the bird shit coming straight at him only for it to jerk to the left a little bit to hit the sidewalk instead? But the fact that the rain literally stopped two seconds after it started? But the fact that his car _stalled_ in the middle of the intersection only to roar to life half a second later—with no action on his part?

That was serious and _scary _magical interference, bitches.

So when Puck finally managed to walk into his great-uncle's shop, he half-expected one of the display guitars to come crashing on his head only for it to zoom back up to its stand or something.

Instead he got a cantankerous son of a bitch whacking him in the face with a rolled-up newspaper for coming too early.

So much for magical interference.

"But it's _four_! I'm here on time!" Puck protested, easily dodging another whack only to have his kneecap nearly popped out of place by the rubber end of a cane.

"You know better than that, boy! Puckerman time means a half-hour delay! I was expecting you at four-thirty! What's wrong with you? Didn't your mama raise you right?"

This was his life. Double-edged swords and the psychos wielding them.

"Waltzin' up in my town, expectin' me to be doin' your mama favors," he grumbled under his breath. "Now I'm gonna have to rush my salmon so I can beef up your skinny ankles. If you'd come on time, it would've been all nice and juicy and soft 'cause I would'a had time to cook it right, but now your malnourished ears are…"

Puck just tuned the old man out and pulled his duffel back out of the bed of his truck only to be yanked backward by his collar as soon as the strap was on his shoulder. He was manhandled all the way into the warmly-colored store that smelled of varnish, wood, and peppermint and up into the two-bedroom apartment above the shop, Uncle Seth ranting and grousing about Puck's so-called "skewed sense of punctuality" and various skinny and unhealthy parts of his body.

"Now listen up, boy," Uncle Seth announced, stopping in front of the apartment door. "I'm _old_. I don't got the patience I had some fifty years ago—_heck_, I _never_ had patience. So I won't be toleratin' any fornicatin' up here. You either take your women in a motel, hotel, or alleyway, but under no circumstances will you be defiling my apartment, my shop, my _buildin'_. Savvy?"

Without waiting for a response, he unlocked the dark green door and hauled Puck in by the collar of his shirt.

Honestly, he'd been expecting a lot of tacky, old mismatched furniture, but apparently his great-uncle got the genes of good taste. Dark cherry woods, forest greens, and dark brown leather were congregated in simple, classic styles. All the pictures on the walls were landscapes, but all the ones on tables and on the mantle were of random family members—whom Puck recognized to be the specifically weird ones. There was Uncle Luke who couldn't tell a story without changing one crucial piece of information with every retelling. A simple trip to the butcher's somehow mutated into an alien abduction. There was Grandpa Jesse who kept his house a pigsty with clothes all over the place, but at the same time, he was the biggest germaphobe alive—Pillsbury couldn't hold a candle. And—holy shit! Look!—there was Cousin Silas whose backyard garden would have regular ecological makeovers depending on his mood—desert, jungle, savannah, forest, meadow, etc.

"Don't look so shocked, you little prick! I ain't like your nana," Uncle Seth groused, sounding totally offended as he slammed a packet of salmon onto the counter and pulled out a cooking sheet for the oven. "Woman is like a _quilt_. Everything's patched together to make a whole _mess_."

Puck snorted and set his bag down next to the couch as he peered out the windows.

"Don't you put your bag in my living room unless you're bunkin' next to my coffee table!" Uncle Seth barked so loudly that Puck's forehead collided against the window. "And don't you go breakin' my glass pane your first day here! Heaven help me! Go stick your bag in the guest room—door on the left in the hall! And don't—for the _love of God_—break anything! And hurry back in here so you can eat and I can show you how to run the counter! S'gonna be like training a baboon to play the cello for the Queen! Good God!"

Well.

This was gonna be the time of his life.

**~oOo~**

"Oh, sweetheart, let's not be so prudish. We're all adults at this point."

"Not _yet_, Hiram," Leroy Berry gritted out through his teeth, casting a sidelong glance at his husband. "Not until December."

"Oh, but the Lord and Lima knows what happened between Finn and Rachel already—it's only understandable that we have a contingency plan in place. Stop being so naïve and start owning up to the fact that our little girl has blossomed into a young woman," Hiram Berry chided gently, adjusting his glasses on his nose. "Now, pick a name or your opinion will be vetoed entirely."

Leroy rolled his eyes and sighed. "Why can't you possibly pick _normal_ names, love?"

"There is nothing wrong with naming a child Memphis. It's masculine—"

"Bono named his _daughter_ that."

"Then it can very well be unisex!"

"What's wrong with simple names? Like…Joseph or Naomi?"

"_Joseph_ and _Naomi_?!" Hiram echoed incredulously, stopping right there in the middle of the sidewalk to stare in disbelief at the man he once knew. "May as well throw in _Shem_, _Ham_, and _Japeth_ into the mix, shall we?!"

"There is _nothing_ wrong with Biblical, _Jewish_ names, Hiram!"

"Oh, _really_?! Let's go with Methuselah then! Methuselah Beelzebub Hudson! That's _longevity and power _all in one name right there!"

"Oh, stop being so ridiculous!"

"Rachel will be smack-dab in the middle of the spotlight! Her children must be distinguished and must therefore have names that convey that kind of prestige!"

"And _Memphis_ conveys the kind of absurd prestige you're obsessed about?!"

"And _Methuselah_ is any better?!"

"That one was _your _idea! And why are you so against Jewish names—_you're_ the Jewish one, remember?!"

"But it doesn't immediately necessitate Jewish names for my descendants!"

Frankly, it wasn't the disturbing topic her fathers were discussing that had Rachel Berry practically _cowering_ between them. It was the fact that somehow—on this day, in this beautiful city, in this wondrous country, on this spectacular earth—the laws of physics were being shamefully defied.

A bright yellow taxi had sped past them, running over a puddle left over from the previous night's rainstorm. And there was no splash. The water barely even rippled. But Rachel brushed it off as a fluke.

Until a disgusting-looking used napkin was picked up in the breeze and nearly flapped into chest before it suddenly changed direction two inches from her skin and flew in the opposite direction. She masterfully convinced herself that hadn't happened. Because she was fairly good at that kind of thing.

But what really alerted her to _something_ happening was when she and her bickering fathers passed by two old men seated on a bench outside a shop. The portly one had bright red hair streaked with tufts of white and held a gnarled, old stick in one hand and a tambourine in the other. The second man, a leaner gentleman with stormy-gray hair was hunched over an acoustic guitar. The redhead elbowed his friend, throwing a wink in Rachel's way as the other man looked up and smirked. A sense of familiarity glimmered around the edges of Rachel's consciousness, and when the gray-haired man began to strum his guitar and the redhead beat out a rhythm on his lap and the tambourine, she stopped.

"_Dancing when the stars go blue," _the gray-haired man sang, nodding at her.

And ever the performer, Rachel took her cue. _"Dancing where the evening fell."_

"_Dancing in your wooden shoes_,_" _the redhead sang with a definite Irish accent.

Rachel grinned and stepped forward from between her now-silenced fathers. _"In a wedding gown._"

"_Dancing out on seventh street,"_ sang the gray-haired man as he continued to strum his guitar, _"dancing through the underground."_

"_Dancing little marionette,"_ Rachel continued, indulging in a playful little spin that had her fathers grinning widely.

"_Are you happy now?"_ Rachel, the gray-haired man, and the redhead all sang together in perfect harmony. _"Where do you go when you're lonely? Where do you go when you're blue? Where do you go when you're lonely, I'll follow you…"_

By now, they'd garnered some attention from the passerby, and Rachel stepped closer to the two men as more people began to congregate. Inside the shop—which just _had_ to have been a music shop—a man with a shaved head whose broad-shouldered back was to them began to beat out a more complicated rhythm on the drum set, having heard them singing from inside.

The gray-haired man smirked even wider. "_When the stars go blue…"_

"_Blu-uu-uue," _Rachel and the redhead crooned.

Hiram subtly reached for Leroy's hand, squeezing affectionately and bumping his shoulder against his husband's. "She's perfect."

Leroy grinned. "Of course she is."

"Is it so bad that I want her children to be just as legendary?" Hiram continued. "I mean…if we start them off with names that spell out majesty, maybe we'll be setting a precedent—"

"A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, love," Leroy interrupted gently. "And Rachel's not even pregnant. In case you forgot, she recently had her engagement broken. We've still got a lot of time to argue about this."

Hiram hummed in contentment, watching Rachel continue to sing with the two men. "Gray hair looks familiar—like we should know him from somewhere or at least he reminds me of someone."

"He most certainly does," Leroy agreed. "But honestly, what are the odds?"

"We haven't heard from him in _decades_," Hiram reminded his husband. "The odds are very much in our favor. Look at the way that man is making love to his guitar."

"We _are_ standing outside a guitar shop, love."

"That's beside the point."

Leroy chuckled and nudged Hiram to be quiet as Rachel and the two men finished the song with a flourish. The crowd that had formed around them applauded and cheered before slowly dispersing. Leroy stepped toward the trio, tugging his husband along.

"That was impressive, young lady," the redhead complimented, taking Rachel's hand and dropping a kiss on her knuckles.

"Thank you," Rachel responded meekly. "I'm actually a musical theater student, so you shouldn't be all that impressed, really. I was trained."

"Regardless," the gray-haired man said decisively. "You got a natural spark, sweetheart. Heard a lotta people sing in my time—take my word for it. I know."

"Oh, thank you, but really—it's not that big of a deal."

"Lies, Berry," a voice interrupted as the door to the shop swung open. "That's a hundred-percent raw talent, Uncle Seth."

"Noah!"

Puck grinned and winked at her as he leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed across his broad chest. Rachel laughed and stepped up to give him wrap her arms around his middle. She squeezed him gently, and when his arms went around her to squeeze her back, she let herself rest in his arms for a few seconds longer. Then she finally noticed:

"You shaved your Mohawk!" Rachel blurted out, reaching up to rub his shaved head.

"No self-respecting grand-nephew of mine's gonna look like he dropped outta a time portal from the fourteen-hundreds," Seth grumbled, rolling his eyes.

Puck scowled. "You didn't have to do it while I was _asleep_."

Seth waved his hand dismissively and then he turned to look up at Hiram and Leroy. The old man glared at them for a second, but then his dark expression softened into a mischievous smirk. "Small world, innit?"

Hiram grinned and shook hands with the old man. "Seth, how are you?"

"Moody."

"_Shut it_, boy."

"S'true, Uncle Seth. You told me not to lie, remember?" Puck reminded his great-uncle innocently as Rachel pulled out of Puck's embrace. (97% of his brain pummeled the 3% that felt disappointed when she fully detached herself and stepped away.)

"So, Noah, what _are_ you doing here?" Leroy asked, clapping the teenager on the shoulder. "Last I checked you were still in Lima."

"His crazy mother kicked him onto my doorstep 'cause she thinks I'm senile," Seth growled. "It's really 'cause she can't feed the boy right. Look at 'im! All skin and bones!"

"Noah looks perfectly healthy, Seth," Hiram admonished with a barely-concealed smile. "Well-muscled and strong."

"Down boy," Seth teased suddenly, eliciting a few laughs. Then he turned to motion to the redhead. "This here's Rick."

"S'nice to meet ye'," Rick said genially, shaking hands with Leroy and Hiram.

Rachel didn't miss the way Puck suddenly stiffened and was now staring at Rick through narrowed, suspicious eyes. She glanced back and forth between her friend and the oblivious, old Irishman, who was amusedly listening to Hiram's account of his visit to Newgrange during his European tour right after his high school graduation.

"Hey, um, Berry? Where were you going today?" Puck asked, his eyes never straying from the old redhead.

"Dad and Daddy were accompanying me to find a tutor," she answered. "I was encouraged to be a well-rounder performer so on top of the rigorous dance lessons I'm being forced into with this blonde nightmare of a teacher—_summer lessons,_ no less—I have to find a music instructor to help me master a musical instrument."

Puck paled on cue. "What instrument?"

"I don't have the time or the hand width to be much of a piano player," she replied. "I was hoping guita—"

"Son of a bitch."

* * *

**Hello again, bubble. Long time no post.  
Heh. Sorry about that. College and all that.  
Expect the second and concluding chapter next Wednesday.  
Hopefully.**

**Anyway, this is in dedication to the Corrs, an awesome Irish band whose music I decided to utilize to follow a distinctly Irish theme in this fic. The song Seth, Rachel, and Patrick sing is "When the Stars Go Blue," sung by Bono and the Corrs.**


	2. Chapter 2

**If it wasn't implied before, I am once again living in denial of the new season. Before it was denial of Sam leaving, now it's just a general denial of the entirety of season four. Because seriously, I just totally give up on this fuckery. No amount of Puck appearances will ever compel me to watch this anymore.**

**Puckleberry 2.0—my skinny, yellow Asian ass.**

* * *

**2**

* * *

Son.

Of.

A.

Bitch.

_Rory_, Puck thought darkly, his mouth curling into an angry grimace and hoped that for once, his newfound "luck" would give him some sort of superpower that involved laser or heat vision so that the disguised asshole he was glaring at would either be vaporized or roasted alive. _That devious little motherfucker._

Puck cleared his throat and addressed the midget. "By any chance, was the person who advised you to learn to play an instrument a redhead?"

"No."

He nearly sighed in relief, but he managed to maintain complete indifference.

"But a little boy with red hair was playing guitar in Times Square, and he recommended this shop if I wanted lessons."

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF SHEBA.

Rachel's cheerful smile faded as she looked at him worriedly. "Why are you asking? Noah, a-are you okay?"

He swallowed thickly, and he felt his eye twitch. "M'fine," he said much more evenly than he thought he could. "M'okay. Should I sign you up on Uncle Seth's list then?"

She followed him into the store as the Fathers Berry continued babbling with Uncle Seth and Rick/Rory/The-Fucking-Leprechaun.

"List?" she echoed.

"List," Puck repeated, walking behind the counter and pulling out a thick, dark red binder out of the drawer under the cash register and setting it on the counter in front of Rachel, the bolded label declaring its purpose to her: DEATH ROW.

"Came up with the label myself when he started bitching about how the old label was peeling off and how I didn't have the initiative to fix the shit I know should be fixed," was his explanation.

She bit her lip and glanced up at him in trepidation.

He snorted. "I was kidding—he's really not that bad. He's a good teacher. Won't whack you with a stick _too_ hard if you keep forgetting the chords."

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped a little.

He chortled again and shoved a pen in her hands, flipping the binder open to a fresh application. "I am _kidding_, Berry. Christ."

"Not funny, Noah," she chided as she began to fill out the sheet. "Term hasn't even started, and NYADA's already got me doing so many things. I can't afford any more stress."

Puck grimaced. "This really how you wanna spend the next four years? Stressed out?"

"Well, of course not! I-I'll…_find my groove_ eventually. Yoga will definitely take some of the edge off—"

"There are a lot of different ways to take the edge off," he drawled, leaning an elbow on the counter and smirking. "One of them is a hell of a lot more fun than _yoga_, Berry."

When this…_expression_ just sort of exploded across her face, he completely backed off.

For a second there, he may or may not have forgotten how Finn just kinda…dumped her and shipped her off to New York. While he was proud of how his best friend came to the realization that Rachel needed her dreams and no one was allowed to stand in her way, Puck wasn't exactly about to give the guy an award. _A_ for intention—_F_ for execution.

"Like boxing," he covered swiftly. "Nothing's more relaxing than imagining someone's face on a punching bag and beating the shit out of it."

She paused mid-signature and shot him a disbelieving look. "After our history of bullying at McKinley, I wouldn't jump to beat _anything_ out of _anything_."

He sighed. "Fine. Keep doing those downward dogs and corpse poses if it makes you feel better."

"It does," she insisted, finishing her signature with a flourish and a star. "The purposes of yoga is to open up one's body to—"

"Yeah, okay. I'll take your word for it," he cut her off with an indulgent smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. "It helps your sex life too."

He blinked in shock but recovered in record time and then smoothly transitioned into a lecherous smirk. "I figured as much—_downward dog_, Rachel."

She rolled her eyes but didn't stop the grin. "So what now?" she asked, pushing the pen and the binder back at him. "Will you call me and schedule a time slot or…?"

Puck scoffed, turned, and referenced a schedule printed out on a light green sheet of paper that was tacked to the wall behind him. "Nah, we're not all fancy like that. Are you free Thursdays at three in the afternoon?"

"No, I have—"

"How about Fridays at five?"

"No, that's when—"

"Fine, fine, fine. How about Tuesdays at eight?"

Rachel scowled at him for his constant interruptions, and he just grinned back at her.

"Tuesdays are good," she answered. "Nothing worthwhile happens that hour anyway. Why do you have a slot open so late?"

Puck turned back to the binder and marked something down. "Uncle Seth is a pretty sought-after teacher, and he's real flexible with his time. Don't care what hour the lesson is as long as it's not gonna interfere with his favorite TV shows."

"Which are?" Rachel prompted.

Puck grimaced. "Some show about this British guy cussing at owners of shitty restaurants and another one where a group of thieves play Robin Hood and shit."

Her eyes brightened excitedly. "Oh! _Kitchen Nightmares_ and _Leverage_!"

Puck turned to her warily. "Didn't think you'd like those kinds of shows…"

She waved her hand dismissively, not bothering to look at him over her shoulder as she admired the various guitars on display. "It's not my cup of tea, but Daddy adores Gordon Ramsey's blunt manner—"

Puck snorted. "Blunt?"

She shot him a look this time. "Crude."

He grinned. "Didn't think _I'd _have to be the one to correct you."

She turned back to the acoustic displays. "Yes, well, I have to admire Chef Ramsey for going out there and helping these a-a-_atrocious_ businesses for the benefit of the owners, employees, and customers. Even if he has to be rude to get his point across."

"Uncle Seth just watches it 'cause he wants to see the fights."

"Yep," she muttered amusedly, eyes still scanning the guitars hanging on the walls. "Definitely related by blood."

Puck smirked and rested his elbows on the counter, loving the fact that New York City weather did wonders on Rachel's hemlines. Those legs looked just as delicious as ever. He nearly licked his lips and everything.

"Don't you think?"

Puck blinked, not even realizing he'd zoned out. Those damn legs were like _drugs_. He wondered if they tasted like berries or chocolate…

"—listening to me?"

"Nope," Puck answered truthfully, reluctantly dragging his eyes back up to her face—taking a momentary detour to her ass, of course.

"I _asked_ if you were here to stay—with your uncle here in New York," she said when he made eye contact.

"Yeah, I mean, my ma pretty much threw me out here because she was guilt-tripping about everything, so I figured I'd be chilling her with Uncle Seth until either of us dies—my death being more likely."

"Noah, that's a terrible thing to say," Rachel protested, turning to frown up at him. "Seth seems like a very nice, even-tempered man who's so kindly taken you in and taught you the ins and outs of his store."

Puck frowned right back at her. 'Cause he was mature. "I'd be a little less harsh if he didn't wake me up at the ass-crack of dawn with a wooden spoon to my ear."

She floundered at that a little, twiddling her thumbs before getting desperate and throwing out: "Well, he's a single man in his late sixties! Can you blame him for not having well-honed parenting skills? And you can cope with it, I'm sure. You've got a hard head."

Puck's smirk smoothed back into place like maple syrup on his pancakes. "Oh, Berry, my head—"

"NOT LIKE THAT!" she shrieked, hand shooting out to clamp over his mouth. "Goodness me."

Puck narrowed his eyes at her through the haze of fruity-smelling hand lotion. He could deal with the smell, the soft mixture of strawberries and cherries with a dash of orange blossom, but the hand on his mouth was unacceptable.

So he poked her.

Not like…_violently_. He threw a tiny little jab with his index finger at her rib 'cause he'd seen Finn tickle her there once. Shit was sickening, but obviously effective. Rachel jumped back, face caught between laughter and fury. The previous two expressions went out the window when she accidentally back up too far and smacked into the wall. That would've been okay, you know, if an old guy hadn't been the one to hang up the displays on some rickety old wall whose studs must be looking like the Swiss cheese of wood.

So it was easy to anticipate what was gonna happen. After that Port-A-Potty incident, Puck was pretty attuned to anything falling near his person, so he totally saw it coming. "It" being the guitar that was about to brain his hot little Jewish-American princess, and he was an _ath-e-lete_, dudes—reflexes like the demon spawn of a cheetah and a hummingbird—so he even had time to debate whether he should pull her out of the way or catch the thing. The first would mean she'd be all pressed up against him, which was always a bonus, but then she'd get all flustered and awkward 'cause Rachel Berry doesn't function well in close proximity with raw, unadulterated _sexy_, and then she'd get all freaked out and never come back to the store again in fear of giving in to her baser urges or whatever.

Damn.

So he settled for the second option where he deftly reached up and caught the guitar right before it cracked her skull. Bonus points 'cause she was totally checking out his flexed guns since they were right next to her head.

"You can touch 'em if you want."

Her eyes snapped up to his, and for a second—just _one_ second—it was like that natural magnetism between them went into overdrive. He could lean in, and it'd all be over. She was single, right? Finn had gone and fucking kicked her outta Lima on their wedding day, so she _had_ to be over his stupid ass. And she was totally trying to keep from licking her lips; he could tell. He could feel her shallow breaths against his t-shirt, and the tension in her shoulders were making her fingers twitch. His hold on the guitar hovering above her head didn't waver, and he took one tiny step closer to her.

For a moment, he honestly thought it was gonna happen. He was gonna have another taste of those Berry Lips before getting yanked off her by either Uncle Seth or the Fathers Berry. But then the glazed look in her big brown eyes dissipated.

_Damn._

She cleared her throat and ducked out from under his arm, carefully stepping toward the counter. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't—"

Puck sighed internally when he noticed she wasn't making eye contact anymore. "Chill," he said, setting the guitar back on the rack and making a mental note to secure the damn rack itself later. "You were just hypnotized by my sexy badassness. Totally understandable."

Her nervous twiddling fingers stilled, and she couldn't stop the small smile. He smirked victoriously.

Puck: 1. Rachel: 0.

"Did I hear something fall?"

Puck sighed and took his time in turning to face his great-uncle. The sixty-year old bastard loped into the store, guitar strapped to his back, with an easy grace Puck hoped he'd have once he got that ancient.

"Maybe," Puck answered blandly.

"It was my fault," Rachel interfered. "I accidentally backed up into the wall and knocked it down. N-Noah managed to catch it before it hit anything."

"Like your head," Puck added, crossing the room to stand by Rachel.

"Oh, that's the Noah we know," Hiram said, winking at Puck. "Forever the devil on Rachel's shoulder and the bodyguard at her side."

Leroy laughed, patting Hiram's shoulder. "Remember when Puck convinced Rachel to sneak into the middle school playground when they were in third grade and wound up getting bullied by a couple of seventh-graders?"

"And our Rachel—ever the fighter—decided to bully them right back," Hiram continued reminiscently. "The result was Puck having to carry Rachel out of the playground, caveman-style in order to escape"

Leroy threw his head back and laughed. "Then remember what happened right after? Rachel laid such a big one on him for being a knight in shining—"

"Hey, now!" Puck interrupted, eyes wide. "Let's leave the past in the past, all right?"

Hiram sighed and patted Puck on the back. "And he walked around red as a cherry for the rest of the day with this wistful expression every time he didn't think anyone was look—"

"DUDES!" Puck nearly shrieked as the Fathers Berry chortled, and Rachel clamped a hand over her mouth to stop her giggles. "Past in the past!"

Uncle Seth snorted and rolled his eyes. He pulled off the guitar and set it down on the nearby stand. "For once, the boy's right. You two live too long in the past, and you wind up with nothing but a depressing future." He turned to Puck, glancing at the rack on the wall first. "Didn't I tell you to secure the rack?"

Puck frowned indignantly. "No!"

The scowl on Uncle Seth's face deepened. "Well, I told you to do it _now_, eh?"

"Look at them! Great-uncle and great-nephew—identical Puckerman scowls!" Hiram teased, patting Puck and Seth on the back simultaneously. "You two should join us for dinner sometime soon. Leroy and I have an apartment nearby. We'd love to have you over."

"Yeah, good practice for your social skills, Uncle Seth," Puck quipped.

"Go get a hammer before I decide to use it on your head instead of the wall stud."

Puck headed toward the storeroom behind the counter, but before he disappeared through the door, Rachel's hand shot out to land on his shoulder. She smiled at him hesitantly. He turned and leaned against the doorjamb.

"Don't tell me you wanna continue our little stare-down in the supply room, baby," he drawled with an easy smirk. "'Cause if you do, then you best make sure you're certain. There's a time and place for teasing."

"Noah!" she laughed, staring down at her ballet flats. "I just…" She glanced back to her dads and Uncle Seth. "I'm just, uh…"

"Spit it out, Berry."

She narrowed her eyes at him disapprovingly but complied anyway, her frown fading back into a small smile. "I'm glad you're here. Even if it's against your will, it's nice…to see a familiar face."

And Puck remembered that she'd been _ceremoniously_ dumped by Finn on their fucking wedding day, under the guise of letting her fly free into the world. Finnocence, for all intents and purposes, had abandoned her in New York , yeah, her dads were there, but she was back to square one. Abrasive personality, big talent, and no friends.

So, you know what?

Damn to hell his image. If it was un-badass to hug anybody—Rachel Berry or not—Noah Puckerman made damn sure it was deemed badass from thereon.

**~oOo~**

What _wasn't_ badass, though, was what happened about two weeks later. Puck was on his way back to the guitar shop with a couple new packs of guitar picks because apparently, all of the guitar _picks_ in the guitar_ shop_ had up and _vanished_. Like they all sprouted legs and hauled ass outta there. He and Uncle Seth could not find a single pick to save their lives.

That's why Puck got sent out on a mission to retrieve some damn guitar picks 'cause Rachel's first lesson was in an hour, and those delicate little fingers of hers would be all torn up and bloody if she didn't use a pick. So it was with memories of Rachel's _non-manhand_-like fingers running through his old 'hawk that Puck casually strolled down the sidewalk back toward the shop with a couple boxes of new motherfucking picks.

It was most like because of those memories that he completely missed the group of drunk-ass numbskulls who couldn't hold their happy hour liquor. And honestly, it was _just his fucking luck_ that there were more than he could handle.

Three, sure.

Five…might pose a problem.

But seven? Dude, Puck was a badass, not an idiot.

They didn't look _that_ terrifying, honestly. One had crumbs in his beard, another had those long-ass bangs that you gotta give yourself whiplash to get outta your eyes, the one on the far left had dirt smudged on the bridge of his nose, one kept sniffling, the one on the far right had a scar on his lip, that other one had a bleach stain on his jeans, and the last one had an actual gold hoop earring—like a pirate. They were a dirty bunch, but you know, nothing to run away from.

But when Crumb-Beard, Smudged Nose, Scar Lip, and Pirate Earring decided it'd be a fun idea to "recruit" Puck as their designated driver/lady magnet/alibi/_bitch_, the night went from crap to straight-up shit. Bieber Bangs was all for using Puck to _attract_ chicks to the group so they could all have a good time. Sniffly wanted to use Puck as a messenger boy so they could keep getting a steady intake of booze without any bartenders or liquor store clerks thinking they'd already had more than enough for their collective lifetimes. And last but not least, Stained Pants wanted Puck to be their protégé.

Whatever the nefarious purposes of these seven dwar—actually, not dwarves—_drunks_, Puck wanted no part in it.

So, you know, he did what any other guy carrying a plastic bag of three packs of guitar picks would do: He said he had to go sing to the terminally ill children at the hospital.

But apparently being drunk makes you immune to sympathy, so the bastards just laughed and said, "We'll be saving their lives just by keeping your voice away from their precious eardrums!" and continued to argue about what they were gonna use Puck for. They even went as far as to subtly corral him against the side of the building.

So, you know, that was a fairly compromising position.

A position that, as his goddamn luck would have it, Rachel Berry found him in.

Yes.

Rachel.

Rachel Berry.

The first thought Puck had was naturally: "Oh, fuck, she's gonna be the first victim of the night."

He was fucking wrong.

He had no idea where _this_ Rachel Berry had come from, 'cause she sure as hell never surfaced in high school when he was still using her face as slushie target practice. He figured she was in-character or something because one second, she was calmly walking down the sidewalk and the next thing Puck knew, she'd locked eyes with him, and all of a sudden she was shrieking bloody murder—as if those hellhounds from _Supernatural_ were right on her ass.

Actually, no.

More like she was fucking possessed.

She was shrieking out random words—he could hear a few familiar Latin words, some Yiddish, some Spanish, probably one French cuss word, another two in Russian, and just a whole lot of _babble_. Her hair was flying out of her hair clip, her shirt was halfway out her skirt, her purse was flying through the air, and he could swear he saw some spit flying out.

It was honestly the most terrifying thing he'd seen in a long motherfucking time.

Obviously the seven drunks flipped their shit and tore outta there, screeching something about bath salts and zombies.

Puck was left leaning against the wall, clutching the bag to his chest, and staring at Rachel with wide, shocked eyes as she pulled a napkin out of her bag to wipe the spit off her chin, smooth her hair back down, and readjust her clothes.

Yep, she definitely belonged on a stage.

When Uncle Seth asked what took Puck so long to come back, Puck had to tell him he was detained by a couple of drunk guys in an alley. He wanted to edit out the part where Rachel…_stepped in_, but the chick got so excited she told the old bastard about how she had to employ the skills she learned from her horror movie workshop. Uncle Seth would not stop laughing and hollering about how Rachel had to _rescue him_ from the big, bad drunks.

Puck seriously thought about ditching him when Seth wouldn't stop bringing it up even a week later.

**~oOo~**

Probably the only good thing that came out of the week following that little incident was that Puck's theory was being proven right. He'd always known that once he and Rachel hit puberty, it would be impossible to leave them in a room alone together without something happening.

He guessed that she must've figured out the same thing when they only ever interacted in a group setting—and even during then, they hardly spoke to each other. If they were ever alone, they were making out. _Por ejemplo_: the week they were dating and when she made out with him to make Finn jealous. The other two times they were alone were to rehearse for "Run, Joey, Run" and "Need You Now." She only kept from making out with him when they were talking about their shitty impulse control because she was dating St. Doucheface at the time. He managed to sneak in one kiss during their rehearsal "Need You Now," and she blamed it on being them being so in-character and emoting the song so well that they got carried away.

So when Uncle Seth decided teaching Rachel would be perfect practice for Puck giving lessons to the others since he was more familiar with her, they were left in another compromising position where they spent one hour of each week in extremely close proximity to each other.

And while Puck would normally seize the opportunity, he was starting to see exactly how well Rachel was taking being kicked onto a train on her wedding day.

"Hey, Berry, you sure you're not part raccoon?"

"Noah!" she shrieked, nearly elbowing him in the throat as she jumped away from where he perched behind her to show her how to hold the neck of the guitar properly.

"Seriously, baby. You're still hot, but you look like you're skipping REM cycles," Puck said truthfully.

"I've just been busy," she defended herself. "I've been practicing my chords, making sure my singing is higher than _up-to-par_, danci—"

"School hasn't even started, and you're already working yourself too hard. Baby, you need to chill the fuck out."

She huffed and frowned down at the guitar strapped across her shoulder, stroking the varnished wood. "You don't understand how competitive it is here, Noah. This is all the time I have to work on making sure I don't project that small-town talent air as soon as classes start. I've worked so hard, but I'm sure there are other students who've worked even harder or are simply better than me without any work at all. I just can't risk—"

"You start thinking like that, you may as well rack yourself up as product number eight-four-nine-seven-six-six-two in a long line of identical items, babe," Puck pointed out, slumping onto the stool she'd been occupying. "The way I see it, if you suck, you've got the instructor's attention right off. Then you can blow 'em away once you know their eyes are on you."

She raised an eyebrow at his theory but looked fairly impressed at the tactic.

"See?" He smirked, tapping the side of his head. "Not just air and condoms up here."

Rachel rolled her eyes but was smiling anyway. Puck stood up and moved behind her again, reaching out to rub her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, stiffening immediately.

"Chill your piss, princess," Puck teased. "Just trying to calm you down."

Her shoulders hesitantly relaxed, but as Puck continued kneading her skin and working his way up to gently massage the back of her neck with his fingertips, her head drooped forward. She groaned, long and low enough to make Puck's eye twitch and a small smile drift along his lips. When all the muscles in her shoulders, back, and neck were smooth and loose, Puck dropped a kiss on her spine, and then backed away.

He walked behind the counter, stifling a giant smile as Rachel blinked dazedly and stumbled a little as she followed him.

"Just practice those chords, and you'll be able to play your first song by next week, okay?" he said, taking the guitar from her. "See you next Tuesday, Berry."

**~oOo~**

He was wrong, by the way.

He didn't see her the following Tuesday. He actually saw her the day after. He'd been planning on somehow trying to redeem himself in his great-uncle's eyes after Tuesday's Debacle, but what happened was in no way planned, anticipated, or _wanted_.

He was walking back to the shop after grabbing one of those delicious frappe bitches from this little coffee shop nearby when he spotted a familiar pair of legs attached to a very familiar ass. It was a little sad that he recognized Rachel by those features, but once he saw what was going on, his self-disgust at his pervertedness was wiped away.

The plastic to-go cup of chocolate frappe crashed to the ground as Puck sprinted across the street and smashed his fist into the face of the asshole who'd just grabbed a furious Rachel around the waist. It took three punches and about six kicks before Rachel's moral code kicked in, and she dragged Puck off the degenerate bitch who was laid the fuck out on the sidewalk, groaning and moaning pathetically.

Uncle Seth had quite a lot to say about Puck's rescue methods, but he certainly never said anything about Rachel's zombie episode that put Puck in a bad light after that either. The foot-high stack of chocolate chip pancakes waiting for Puck the following morning was as close to a "good job, kid" he was ever gonna get from Seth anyway.

**~oOo~**

At first, Puck thought it was the high crime rate of the city…or you know, the simple fact that compared to Lima, New York City had a lot more people and therefore a lot more criminals. So getting cornered by the seven drunks and seeing Rachel get sexually harassed _should've_ seemed like a sad coincidence. And it was…until Puck remembered how shocked he was that the rack the guitar was hanging off of was actually pretty sturdy. He even managed to do a few chin-ups with it.

And then it started creeping up on him—the idea that these three little incidents all happening within a week of each other was _not_ a coincidence. Especially when you factored in that Rachel just _happened_ to stumble into a duet with his great-uncle.

That's why when the torrential downpour started, dousing him in water for only a grand total of eight seconds before it suddenly stopped right in his little circle, he didn't know whether to curse Rory or thank the bastard.

"Oh, Noah. Didn't you check the forecast today?"

Puck looked down at the midget—dressed in her pink raincoat, black polka-dotted rain boots, and her pink and purple umbrella—and smirked, throwing an arm around her shoulders so they fit better under the umbrella. "Why bother with my luck, huh?"

Rachel snorted. "I'm not always going to be here to come to your rescue, you know?"

He hummed in reply, deciding to stay quiet about the last week's events. He maneuvered around so that her arm was tucked into the crook of his elbow as he held the umbrella over them. If Uncle Seth spotted them through the shop window and Rachel was the one holding the umbrella, Puck would have hell to pay. Plus, you know, the arm-link was _their thing_.

"In all honesty, I didn't think we'd be seeing that much of each other," Rachel began. "Even though we're both living in the world of music, we drift in different circles. The only intersection would be my guitar lessons, but even with that, I'm surprised that we've met up so many times within the last two weeks—albeit under negative circumstances. It's refreshing considering we hardly ever interacted in high school."

Puck couldn't stop what came out of his mouth in reply: "But when we _did_, it was pretty intense."

She pinched his bicep and blushed. "We're passionate people. I suppose it's understandable."

Puck scoffed. "You're not passionate—you're obsessive."

"And _you_ have anger management issues," she countered with another pinch. He didn't understand the point; his guns were _steel_. "That still connotes a certain type of passion."

"If you say so, baby," Puck sighed, not really enjoying the turn of the conversation.

"I _do_ say so."

"I know."

"You and I have a lot more in common than we initially thought, you know," she pointed out contemplatively, gracefully skipping over a puddle that Puck carelessly sloshed his way through. "You and I both have a sadly significant amount of abandonment issues—"

"Well, don't be subtle now, Berry. Christ."

"—we both hide our insecurities behind what we think defines us, me as a Broadway actress and you as a…"

"Badass motherfucker."

"Not quite the terms I'd use, but they'll suffice," she muttered.

"They're perfect, is what they are," Puck corrected her, bending to nudge her with his shoulder a little. "So what's the third?"

She frowned into the distance, as if trying to figure out what to say, and he let her think for a while. They walked about a block or so before she finally answered with, "We manage to have both the best and worst luck."

Puck nearly choked on his own spit. But he wasn't about to say anything about his supernatural predicament. Honestly, there was still a part of him that was wondering if he'd imagined the whole thing because of some brain tumor or something.

"The hell do you mean?" he asked gruffly.

She glanced at him, frowning at his tone, before explaining, "Well, _I_ choke at my NYADA audition but manage to make up for my dismal performance at Nationals, but when I finally have the man of my dreams, I lose him. You hit the jackpot on tumultuous pasts, but you manage to land yourself here in the Big Apple. However, it's only because your mom didn't want to risk you becoming a Lima Loser. Am I making sense?"

"Well, for _me_, yeah, I guess," Puck replied. "But you're wrong about you. You have good luck, Berry. Everyone else who chokes at their audition never got a second chance except for you. And I ain't some expert on romance, but the man of your dreams sure as hell doesn't ditch you at a train station on your wedding—"

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. She moved to drop his arm, but he didn't let her. "Okay, for one thing, Finn did not _ditch me_, Noah. He—"

"Set you free so you could follow your dreams," Puck finished blandly. "But has he called you since?"

"No, but…"

"No _buts_, Rachel," he insisted. "Truth is that your good luck was your situation with NYADA; your bad luck came in the form of Finn."

It made sense, you know. Pretty much everyone had long since figured that shit out.

But Puck was talking to _Rachel Berry_.

So…she blinked at him, dislodged her arm from around his, wrenched her umbrella out his hand, and left him in the rain.

* * *

**Apparently, I was wrong…  
This got way out of hand. It looked short when I outlined it, but, um, yeah. Expect the actual, **_**final**_** chapter next week. =D  
Leave your questions, comments, concerns in the box below. Feedback isn't love, but it sure as hell comes close.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, final chapter. I promise.**

**Sorry about the delay. Tengo que trabjar en mi tarea y presentación. Yes. I am taking a Spanish class. Look at that sentence. Of **_**course**_** I have to take a Spanish class.**

* * *

**3**

* * *

It was pretty much understood that if you offended a chick by saying the person she believes to be her soul mate is the worst thing that ever happened to her, she's gonna ignore you until the very ends of the earth and life as we know it. And it was the kind of explosive ignoring that everyone fucking noticed. Not like a subtle or formal snub. No. If it was possible to _scream_ silence at someone, Rachel was the one to pull it off.

Serious props, though, 'cause Puck didn't even know that shit was _possible_.

He couldn't sit at that agreed-upon dinner and be impressed, though. Mostly 'cause Rachel was pulling an Ice Queen on him, the Fathers Berry were trying to make lame stilted conversation, and Uncle Seth was shooting him glares soaked in sulfuric acid.

He may as well have contracted laryngitis for all the words he said that night—which totaled two.

"Hi."

"Bye."

He couldn't even tell if Rachel had told Hiram and Leroy about what Puck had said because those two acted like nothing was wrong and worked the hardest to get the conversation going between the two youngest at the table of the hotel restaurant. They failed epically, of course, but props for trying. It was like sixth grade all over again—when he completed the transition into the Puck he was in junior high and the first two years of high school in which the very first slushie was tossed. The very last time the Puckermans and the Berrys had dinner remained one of the most disastrous evenings. Hiram and Leroy were still BFF's with Aviva, Bekah was off in her own little world, but Puck shot down every attempt Rachel made to talk to him.

He was still pretty ashamed about that.

Puck had hoped apologizing about the grape slushie back in sophomore year was a sort of umbrella apology (if that was an actual thing) about all the shit he put her through before they finally came to an agreement that they were absolute strangers and no longer knew anything about each other. There would be no more Puck and Rachel. Until they got together and became nothing _but_ Puck and Rachel for a solid five days.

Apparently this was some sort of plot reversal he remembered her rambling on about the other day. This time instead of him shutting her out, it was the other way around. Only this time, this shit wasn't gonna last for five fucking years—_hell_ no.

So Puck did what he never did before: he tried.

He genuinely tried to be nice and shit because he wasn't gonna apologize for telling the truth. It was something she needed to hear, something pretty well-accepted within their circle whether or not it was unspoken, and honest to God, Rachel needed a wakeup call that Finn Fucking Hudson was not _the shit_.

So, you know, he tried to help her out.

He searched "helpful teaching skills" on Google and refrained from sighing, rolling his eyes, or grimacing during her next _extremely_ awkward guitar lesson. He offered to drive or walk or fucking _carry_ her home. He offered dinner, lunch, breakfast, brunch, an afternoon snack, and even went as far as to offer _high tea_.

To no fucking avail.

Like, he even offered her pens, paper, water, anything he could possibly give. He was two offers away from fucking going down on her just to get her to relax her panties. It was fucking ridiculous. Three weeks of this fuckery, and he and Uncle Seth were one toothpick shy of starting a fistfight. Uncle Seth wouldn't stop bitching about his apparently shitty social skills that alienated the one friend he had in this town, and Puck refused to stop drinking straight out of the milk and juice jugs in protest of that.

It finally got to the point where Puck sat down on the counter after the third awkward-ass lesson with Rachel and groaned up at the ceiling until he could feel his vocal chords getting all fucked up.

The shop door chimed open and then: "Ah, the pains of women."

Puck looked down and saw Rick. He sighed and refocused on the ceiling. "I don't know if you're talking about _my_ pain or the monthly pain _they_ feel that makes _them_ a pain in my ass."

Rick snorted. "I don't think you should be talking about a lady's private business."

"It's in the science books," Puck deadpanned. "It ain't private anymore."

Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and the connection door swung open for Seth to stride into view. "What are you two talking about people's private business?" He turned to Rick. "You're here again? Brother, my shop is not some street corner for you to kick back and relax. Go home." He turned to Puck. "You, go re-string Jones's guitar and record the rest of my NCIS marathon."

"And this is why you lived alone for years, Uncle Seth," Puck groused, hopping off the counter and stomping up to the apartment.

Seth just ignored him. He turned to Rick. "And why are _you_ here?"

"I'm bored."

"Get out."

But two minutes later, when Puck went back down 'cause he forgot his phone, Rick was still fucking there. At first he seriously thought Rick had a crush on Uncle Seth. Understandable. All Puckermans were sexy. Except for Bekah. Bekah was not sexy. She was asexual. Her name and the act of physically bonding with a person were never meant to be in the same senten—okay, enough. Jesus.

Back to the fuckery Puck witnessed when he came back down.

He was on, like, the fourth step on the stairs, still out of view, when he heard Rick say, "…just getting ridiculous, Seth. You can't have that kind of thing in your house."

Puck immediately jumped to wondering where Uncle Seth was apparently stashing his drugs. Then he was like, _No, no, he's too much of an old-school hardass. He's hosting orgies when I'm not here._

Then he froze and thought of Rachel, Satan, Quinn, Brittany, and every other hot girl he could remember 'cause the visuals of Uncle Seth in the middle of a fucking orgy was something he desperately needed to purge from his mind. Fucking gross.

"You make it sound like I stashed a dead body in my closet, you idiot," Seth barked, "and if you keep talking like that, _you're_ gonna be the dead body."

Puck laughed into his fist, stifling the sound.

"I _mean_ this weird fight between the boy and Rachel," Rick said pointedly. "It's getting annoying, don't you think?"

"How would _you_ know? You're not even here all the time—and do _not_ take that as an invitation."

"Well, it's certainly a hindrance to the teaching process," Rick continued, ignoring Seth's barbs. "You can't learn anything if you don't even like the person who's teaching you. You become completely unreceptive."

"You don't know Rachel Berry."

"I know enough about teaching methods. Music is emotional, raw, passionate—all those two are right now is cold. She's going to walk away from those lessons learning absolutely _nothing_ real."

"You questioning the boy's teaching abilities?"

"I'm questioning the quality of this shop if a talented young girl like that isn't getting the best lessons she possibly can. Don't you think?"

"For God's sake, if it bothers you so much, _I'll_ give her the lessons."

"You _can_, but the bad air will linger in this place. Juju, chi, karma—whatever you want to call it. You need to get them to resolve their little conflict."

There was a long pause, and Puck's mouth gradually morphed into a deep grimace. And then: "What do you even _care_? For crying out loud, why are you so invested in these two all of a sudden?"

"They make a good couple, don't you think?"

"Okay, now you _really_ need to get out of my shop. Go get yourself some tampons or something."

Phone completely forgotten, Puck trudged back into the apartment, cursing the day Rory O'Sunavabitch came into his fucking life. Goddamn meddler. This was all his fault, so yeah, it made sense that the son of a bitch was trying to fix the shit he caused, but this was just annoying.

If this problem _between him and Rachel _was gonna be resolved, he was gonna be doing the resolving. No one interfering and shit.

**~oOo~**

So when next week rolled around, he didn't know whether this was legit or leprechaun interference. Apparently, Rachel's duet partner went and got his ass hospitalized, so now she needed someone to play the piano and sing with her for this audition for some weird advertisement production-whatever. She was sitting in some waiting room, twenty minutes away from her audition, and freaking the fuck out.

So who did Hiram and Leroy Berry call?

Yeah.

Obviously Puck had _zero_ practice and didn't know a majority of the notes, so he and Rachel, in a completely unspoken agreement, managed to improvise and _kill_ that song. They put a kickass new spin on a classic, and that may or may not have been the reason why they pretty much got turned down. _Looking for a blonde_, his perfect ass. They just couldn't have her in that stupid-ass production 'cause she would've outshined the rest of the cast or whatever.

And he totally meant to tell her all that, you know, but the psychotic little midget up and _ran away_ from him. Like, she just dropped a lame-ass "thank you" and then bolted. You can imagine the scene when he got back to the shop. Rick and Uncle Seth took one look at his expression, rolled their eyes, and turned away, Uncle Seth muttering something along the lines of: "Gotta do everything myself…"

It did not sound promising.

**~oOo~**

Puck slumped onto the couch and leaned his head back. This was damn-near a disaster. The only thing that made this dinner even a _little bit_ better than the last one was that the Fathers Berry decided a better strategy than ignoring the problem was making Puck and Rachel feel as awkward as ever by reminiscing. There were so many embarrassing incidents that Puck had long-since blocked out; it was like a slap in the face remembering all that shit.

The Fairy and the Dinosaur.

The Chocolate Cheese Catastrophe.

The Floppy Disk Failure.

The Compact Disk Controversy.

The Red Velvet Marble Brownie Ice Cream Graham Cracker Parfait.

The Kiss.

The Grape Slushie of 2010.

For the first time since their little falling-out, Puck and Rachel were surfing the same brainwave: MAKE. IT. STOP.

But for the first time since they all fucking met up in New York City, Uncle Seth and the Fathers Berry were extremely interested in reminiscing together—reminiscing all about their memories of Puck, memories of Rachel, and especially the memories of both Puck _and_ Rachel's shenanigans.

It was shocking, really, how much shit they got caught up in within a time span of eleven years. Like, Puck was fairly sure they weren't even halfway through the list by the time dinner was over and everyone moved into Uncle Seth's living room. That was where Puck was currently positioned: on the couch, frowning at nothing and everything in particular, while Rachel was awkwardly and defensively positioned near the counter, on the very opposite side of the apartment from Puck, strategically planted near the front door.

As if he was gonna get up and start yelling at her, causing her to make another quick escape.

"Hey, Rachel," Uncle Seth called out, ambling over to her as the Fathers Berry dropped onto the couch, sandwiching Puck between them.

Oh, shit.

"Yes?" Puck heard her respond respectfully.

"Can you do me a favor?"

"Uh, what is it?"

"I need you to get something for me from the supply closet. I'd get Noah to do it or even do it myself if it weren't for the fact that it's kind of in a tight space, and I need someone small to reach in and grab it," Uncle Seth explained sheepishly.

HORSESHIT.

"So, Noah, how are you?" Hiram asked.

"M'okay," Puck answered vaguely, straining his ears to hear Uncle Seth and Rachel.

"I-I won't get too dirty, will I?" she asked worriedly.

"Oh, no, no! You'll be fine. It's just your arm I need. The boy and I are kinda big to be squeezin' into spaces like that," he reassured her.

"Are you planning on going to school?" Hiram persisted.

"Uncle Seth's making me take a few business classes in the fall so I know how to work the finances of the shop 'n stuff."

"Well, I suppose I could help," Rachel finally conceded. "Is it downstairs in the shop?"

Puck finally risked it and swiveled on the couch to watch Uncle Seth leading Rachel out of the apartment.

What in the fuckering hell?

"Noah?"

Puck blinked and turned back to Hiram and Leroy.

"Which college will you be attending?" Leroy asked—probably for the second time.

"Ask Seth," Puck sighed, pulling himself up to his feet. "He's the one who enrolled me the day I got here. I gotta go check something out; you two keep it PG in here, 'kay? I'm trusting y'all with no parental guidance. Be right back."

And Puck quietly followed Uncle Seth and Rachel down to the shop, employing his ninja skills to sidle against the wall and keep his footsteps light on the staircase. He peered through the ajar connection door.

"It's right here," he heard Uncle Seth say before the lights behind the counter flipped open. One big shadow and a significantly smaller one slid along the far wall and then disappeared into the supply room.

"What exactly am I supposed to be getting here?" he heard her ask.

"It's an old ukulele I've been keeping safe for a while," Uncle Seth answered. "I didn't think I'd be pulling it out for another long while which's why I stashed it behind so much other stuff. Now, you don't need to pull all this stuff out 'cause it's big, heavy, and there's a lot of it. Just reach in through that slot right there and pull it through—it's in its case, of course."

Puck silently slipped out from behind the door, straightening up from a ninja crouch just in time to see Uncle Seth slither out from the closet.

"You," Uncle Seth ordered quietly, "come over here and make sure nothing falls on her head."

Puck scowled and crossed the shop, stepping behind the counter and moving into the supply closet, hitching up an eyebrow when he saw Rachel bent at the waist and reaching through a space between two giant storage boxes, ass swaying nicely.

"I think I've got it," she said, most likely still believing that Uncle Seth was the one standing behind her.

A box near her head wobbled threateningly, and Puck stepped up behind her to brace his hand on the box before it fell.

He nearly dropped the damn thing, though, when the door slammed shut and he heard the lock click.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Puck shrieked.

Rachel squeaked, smacked her head on something, and fell back on her ass. Actually, she landed her ass on Puck's feet and her back rested against his calves.

"NOAH!" she screamed indignantly, completely forgetting about their little argument in favor of screeching at him. "I COULD HAVE GOTTEN A CONCUSSION!"

He growled and helped her up to her feet. "Well, a concussion is better than getting locked in a fucking supply room!" he retorted, turning to the door and banging on it. "UNCLE SETH! WHAT THE HELL?!"

Okay, he had enough of this. This was all fucking Rory's fault. Rory was the one to plant the fucking idea, and it was Rory who got him caught up in this Rachel-problem to begin with. It was Rory who went and bitch-slapped him into New York as a means to repay some sort of fucked-up favor of digging his goddamn shillelagh out, only this was most likely payback for punching him in the balls.

BUT THIS WAS REPAYMENT ENOUGH ALREADY.

JESUS CHRIST. NO MORE.

"Hiram! Leroy!" they heard Uncle Seth call, his footsteps echoing down the stairs. "You two dummies want some more cake?! Noah and I can't eat all of that ourselves!"

"UNCLE SETH! I'M TOTALLY GONNA CALL NANA CONNIE FOR THIS!"

"WHAT ARE YOU?! FOUR?! SUCK IT UP!"

"YOU LOCKED US IN A CLOSET, DUDE!"

"AT LEAST IT AIN'T A PRISON!"

"WHAT—I—_UNCLE SETH_!" Puck cried one more time before he heard the connection door slam shut.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Rachel sighed, dropping down onto a spare stool. "Your great-uncle certainly doesn't know how to mind his own business."

Puck scowled darkly and banged his head on the door once. "I _know_."

"Well, now what?" she sighed. "Don't you know some way to break down the door or something?"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause breaking something of Uncle Seth's is such a good idea. I'm gonna be the one to pay him back for the damages," Puck grumbled. "There're no air ducts to crawl through, no hinges to unscrew, no baseball bats to break any doors, and sure as hell nothing to fucking do."

"Why did he do this?"

"Because you don't know what the hell is good and bad for you apparently," Puck snapped impatiently. "Now would you just shut the fuck up? You had no problem with that up until two minutes ago."

She glowered at him. "What's your problem?!"

"I think it's fairly fucking obvious what my problem is!" Puck shot back. "Even before I got here, I have gotten nothing but _stupid shit_ happening to me! Like, you don't even fucking understand! And on top of all that shit—which, you know, don't fucking ask me about it 'cause you wouldn't believe me even if I had fucking scientific evidence—we've got _you_! You, who doesn't mind telling people the cold hard truth about how untalented they are compared to you, but can't take the truth about your own fucking reality!"

"EXCUSE ME?!"

Puck rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"_My _reality has been comprised of constant rejection!" she retorted. "I don't even need to show you a litany of all the examples! I thought you, out of all people, would understand and not try to justify any of those rejections to me!"

"Jesus _CHRIST_! I'm not trying to say you deserved to be rejected or that you even walked into it! All I said was that Finn fucked you over—he doesn't fucking deserve _your_ defense of his dumbass decisions."

And in true Rachel form, she crossed her arms, huffed, and turned away.

Puck glared at the side of her head and rolled his eyes.

_Fine_.

**~oOo~**

_THUNK!_

"Chill your lady bits, Berry! Jeez!" Puck groaned, rubbing his shoulder where the stack of manuals rebounded off the door and whacked him. "You're gonna pull a muscle or wind up smacking me in the face again!"

"Well, at least I'm trying to _do_ something!" she shrieked in frustration. "You've just been sitting for the last two hours doing absolutely _nothing_!"

"S'not like I _have_ anything to do," Puck defended himself. "Uncle Seth isn't gonna let us outta here until we're buddies again or something. Throwing shit at the door isn't gonna get us outta here faster."

She kicked the empty box into one of the nearby shelves and huffed exasperatedly. "According to you, we were never friends, so we're just chasing our tails."

Puck rolled his eyes and scowled. "So since we're stuck here for the rest of our lives and you're not anyone I should care about, you can be my last chance at a meal, huh?"

She paused and shot him a disgusted look. "You're revolting."

"I'm truthful, sweetheart," Puck corrected her. "Shocking enough for you?"

"No, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you're as much of a caveman as we all thought you were. All you need is a club to complement your crudeness and carnal appetite."

"Ooga-booga."

"SEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEETH!" Rachel suddenly shrieked at a note that fucked the last note of the _Halo/Walking on Sunshine _mash-up right in the ass.

Puck blinked dazedly. His brain was _legitimately_ vibrating.

A chorus of laughs echoed somewhere above them, and Rachel looked ready to bum-rush the door into splinters.

Puck finally took pity on her and grabbed her around the waist before she hurt herself. "Sit your ass down, woman. You'll look like a beanie baby being tossed against a steel vault."

"Let go of me!" she commanded, flailing out of his grip. "I can _seat myself_, thank you very much! I don't need you manhandling me!"

"Then, for God's sake, just sit the fuck down," Puck sighed, backing away from her and plopping back down on the stool. "You're gonna lose your voice."

She dropped down onto one of the boxes and nearly collapsed into it with how hard she sat down. "Fine," she said. "Fine. But if we _do_ end up spending the rest of our lives in this godforsaken closet, it will be _all_ your fault. How did you even come to be in here with me anyway? Last time I turned around, it was Seth who was behind me. Next thing I know, it was _your_ yell that had me knocking my head into the shelf."

Puck stared at her in disbelief. "Been in here for _two hours_, and you're _just now_ asking me that? Seriously?"

"In case you forgot, I've been trying to get us out."

"And failing."

"At least I was _trying_!"

"The only thing you actually _did_, Berry, is break a few boxes, dent the door, crack a guitar case, break a spare stool, and cause me enough pain to last a long fucking time," Puck sighed. "What are you gonna do next? Punch a hole in the wall big enough for you to crawl through?"

Rachel groaned in exasperation. "I promise that I am done vandalizing my _prison_, Noah. Now will you _please_ answer the question?"

Puck rolled his eyes. "I was trying to keep shit from falling on your head."

Rachel blinked. "Oh. Thank you."

Puck nodded and turned back to picking at a thread on the hem of his shirt.

"And thank you again," she said after a couple of minutes.

He cocked an eyebrow to prompt her to continue.

"For, um, helping me at my audition," she clarified after clearing her throat awkwardly and shifting her position slightly. "You did the best you could at the very last minute, and you, uh, were magnificent. Our improvisation was wonderful."

"We kicked that song's ass. They wouldn't take us 'cause we have more talent in our pinky toes than their writers, choreographers, and advertisers put together," Puck said matter-of-factly.

Rachel smiled faintly. "You're right. You were right before too, you know."

"You _did_ question my badassness!"

"Noah!" she laughed, shaking her head. "I meant about what you said."

Puck's eyebrows shot up and he slumped lower on the stool.

"I've tried calling Finn," she explained. "I called Kurt, Burt, Carole, and even Will—"

"The hell is Will?"

"Mr. Schue, Noah. Mr. Schue."

"You call him 'Will' now?!"

"He's no longer our teacher."

"Yeah, but you calling him that makes me think you're going back to that creepy schoolgirl crush you had on him three years ago."

"Noah!"

"Well, it's weird!"

"ANYWAY—I called everyone, but no one is telling me where Finn disappeared to."

"And how does that make me right?"

"He dumped me."

"Yeah, he did."

"He wanted t-t-to fly, but he just pushed me off the cliff."

"Baby, he _drop-kicked_ you off the cliff, got back in his car, and drove off."

"Why would he do that?" she asked, her lip trembling.

Fuck.

"Why would he just abandon me like that? I-I thought that was what made him a man—having the ability of letting someone go for their own good, but he just…cut me out of his life, Noah. Is that a sign of a man?"

Puck sucked on his bottom teeth and sneered—not at Rachel, but at the image of his father that suddenly sprouted in his head. "No, that's the sign of a coward."

"But why did he do it if he didn't love me? He never officially broke up with me. He just…let me go."

"He abandoned you at a fucking train station, Rachel," Puck said flatly. "If a guy sticks you on a train and never calls you again, then he's not worth your time."

"But maybe it's a test of faith—maybe I should wait for him?"

"No."

"But he was strong enough to let me go. I should be strong enough to wait for him."

"No."

"He—"

"Just shut—just stop. Stop. No."

"Noah—"

"Look, sweetcheeks, that's what got you in this mess in the first place—you making excuses for him."

"But everyone has their problems, Noah, Finn included. We've all got our own issues and personal complexes that bog down our decision-making processes, and Finn especially has a lot of problems to wade through what with his—"

"I got abandonment issues, inferiority complexes, anger management problems—baby, do not tell me about Finn's problems. I get it. But just 'cause his life is shitty doesn't mean he has the right to make yours just as bad."

She blinked. A smirk slowly lifted the corner of her mouth. "This coming from a high school bully?"

"_Ex_, Rachel. _Ex_-high school bully," he corrected her darkly.

She nodded obligingly. "_Ex_-high school bully. I'm sorry. But—"

"I will summon my Homeboy J-Dawg to perform some sort of exorcism if you say something about—"

"I'm not defending Finn," she sighed, cutting him off. "I was going to say you're right."

Puck blinked. Then he smiled and leaned back against a shelf, crossing his arms behind his head. "Keep going."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Finn…has a lot of growing up to do. I've had ample time to come to that conclusion. But it doesn't detract from the fact that I _do_ love him, and I _will_ eventually forgive him for what he did—regardless of how well-intentioned those misdeeds were. I _am _a grown woman, now. I can make my own decisions; he doesn't have to make them for me."

"Damn straight."

"And if he just so happens to come crawling back on all fours, begging my forgiveness, then he's got another thing coming because I'm going to make him suffer the way I suffered. He's going to feel the pain he put me through these last few months. I'll take him back, of cou—"

Puck nearly fell out of his seat. _"WHAT?!"_

"What?!" she demanded, shocked.

"You're taking him back?!"

"Well, of course I am!"

"Rachel! For God's sake it's just not sinking in, is it?! Finn is a _turd_ from a small town in Ohio; you've got the whole fucking buffet of new dudes waiting for you in _New York City_. Don't limit yourself, baby. Take it from me; I _know_. I am an _expert_ on un-limiting myself."

"I know! Trust me, all of Lima knows! I still love Finn, though, Noah. Nothing's going to change—"

"Will you only ever do musical dramas?"

"What?"

"Will you only ever do musical dramas?" he repeated himself patiently.

"Of course not."

"You're gonna do, like, musical comedies, straight-up dramas, and whatever the fuck else, right?"

"Naturally. I want to be a diverse and well-rounded actre… Oh."

"Yeah. You don't know if you love milk chocolate until you tried white and dark too."

"I'm vegan."

"You don't know if you love vegan milk chocolate until you tried vegan white and vegan dark too."

And she looked at him with this expression, like, she knew exactly how significant the metaphor was, considering who'd come up with it in the first place. And she sat there for a good twenty minutes, just stewing over their conversation.

But Puck could feel it, and he smirked because she was _just now_ really understanding how right he motherfucking was.

His awesomeness runneth over.

**~oOo~**

They didn't get let out of the supply room until about 2am when Rachel knocked over a stack of boxes from laughing so hard that she toppled off the stool. He'd given her the stool and taken the floor like the gentlemen he was. So when the door opened with Seth and the Fathers Berry thinking that the entirety of the supply room was about to cave in because of some epic battle, they saw Rachel right on top of Puck.

So, you know, they didn't really know what the fuck to do since technically Puck and Rachel weren't fighting anymore, but neither was their current position any less acceptable.

When Hiram and Leroy gave it another second of thought, though, it was a hell of a lot more acceptable actually. Definitely a better prospect than having a bumbling sasquatch as a son-in-law, and Noah was pretty much part of the family already anyway.

So they moved to shut the door again, but Seth held it open and the two teens practically bowled them over on the way out.

After that, it went back to normal—well, the "normal" before Puck and Rachel's fight. So, you know, it left Puck with a seriously false sense of security. He and Berry were really getting along. She would ramble about nothing in particular, and he would interject snarky, sarcastic comments, teasing, or legitimate questions. They would argue about movies, music, and food—_especially_ food. They would talk about Rachel's own inferiority issues with NYADA, Puck's misgivings about his upcoming attempt at college classes, and their futures.

And because they were, in fact, _friends_ now, the Fathers Berry, Rick (Rory), and the frickin' heavenly body had these stupidly high hopes something was gonna happen between them romantically again—which, you know, _ridiculous_.

_Because_ fucking everyone in the world (but Finn, who was God-knows-where anyway) wanted them to be together or something, they kept getting caught up in _more _stupid situations—like there hadn't been enough of those this past summer.

Situations at the farmers market, situations at the movies, in the middle of the road, in shops, in cafes, in restaurants—motherfucking anywhere they went to hang out together had the extremely high potential of _situations_.

The very final, fucked-up, _worst_ one, though, happened right outside Victoria's Secret. Honestly, it was a completely innocent thing. Some chick had apparently dropped a bright green lace thong—must've fallen outta her bag since it still had the tag on it—and Puck decided to pick it up and give it back to the store in case someone came back for it or something. Rachel made some comment about the style and color, so Puck thought it'd be funny to hold it up to his hips and model it. He was still eighteen-years old, okay? He was still a fucking teenage boy with a sense of humor.

But apparently, neither Rachel nor a three-year old little girl thought it was as funny as Puck. The kid started screaming bloody murder because she was probably just so fucking shocked, but thanks to Puck's luck (or fucking Rory) some nearby_ redheaded_ cop took it to mean Puck was indecently exposing himself—which was stupid 'cause he was still wearing his goddamn pants—but apparently, everyone in the vicinity thought that Puck had gone into Victoria's Secret and bought himself a bright green lace thong.

He had no idea what grounds the cop had to threaten him with arrest (not that Puck knew anything about New York's indecency laws), but Rachel—who'd somehow disappeared as soon as Puck held up that thong—suddenly reappeared, threw herself into his arms, planted a giant kiss on his mouth, and grabbed the thong out of his hands, saying, "Noah! Thank you for finding it! I thought I dropped this earlier. I'm so sorry officer. My boyfriend's still got a few years to mature. I'm so sorry about all this."

Puck just dazedly stared at her as she towed him away from the cop.

Dudes, just 'cause they were friends didn't mean there wasn't any unresolved sexual tension, you know. There_ honestly_ was just a certain amount of time before a guy like Puck and a girl like Rachel succumbed to whatever impulses they had.

So it was only a matter of fifteen minutes for Rachel to drag Puck all the way back to Uncle Seth's shop, and seven seconds for Puck to drag Rachel into the supply closet, press her against the wall, and kiss her until she was hanging off him like an apron—which only took about five seconds anyway.

And thank God it only took that long 'cause apparently, Uncle Seth was sitting right there sifting through old music books. He gave them a full five seconds before clearing his throat and then kicking them out and laying down the most awkwardly-executed set of intimacy laws in the apartment.

**~oOo~**

After finally getting back on the relation-ship with Rachel, Puck thought his _situations_ and _luck_ would end, 'cause you know, he was in New York, he was with Berry, and he was well on his way to having some sort of career involving music even if it was just giving lessons and working in a guitar shop. He was happy that way. But apparently, Rory decided to have one last bang.

He "anonymously" donated enough money for the McKinley High glee club to travel to New York City and watch a couple of Broadway shows as a supplemental activity for the group. It even paid for the ones who'd already graduated.

Naturally.

_Naturally_.

So Schue, Sue, Emma, Blaine, Sam, Artie, Brittany, Tina, Joe, and Sugar took a road trip into NYC while Quinn, Mike, Santana, Kurt, and Mercedes drove, flew, or took trains to meet up with Puck and Rachel. No one knew or was saying where Finn was, so he was out of the group, obviously. Schue wisely saved that portion of the money in the club coffers. Rory "came" with the glee club, but announced that he would be returning to Ireland afterward since his visa expired anyway.

Lies.

He found his fucking magic stick, so he was gonna live it up the way any immortal leprechaun would. Have shamrock orgies and whatnot and shit.

So they all sat through _Evita, Mary Poppins, Bring It On: The Musical, The Lion King, The Phantom of the Opera, Rock of Ages, _and, of course, _Wicked_.

It was honestly pretty fucking great, but don't ask Puck that out loud because he will lie through his teeth and say he was miserable the entire time. So when he finally decided_ to hell with appearances_ and threw an arm around Rachel, tucking her close to his side in the middle of _Mary Poppins_, Mercedes leaned over and asked, "How did _this _happen?"

Puck glanced at Rory, smirked, turned back to Mercedes, and answered. "Just got lucky, I guess."


End file.
